


Schutzengraben

by YuriOokino



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Non-Explicit Sex, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YuriOokino/pseuds/YuriOokino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Arthur's regiment is sent to Arras, Marshal Bonnefoy seems unsuitable for war (but he's not) and a frenchman looks for some solace before the attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Trench: Be alive

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction was borned in italian. It has been translated thanks to Google and corrected by the author, who isn't proud of her English. It has also been read by some english people, who didn't criticize it. In summary: sorry, I did my best.

Arras, September-October 1914

It was an insignificant french town, but it was still the most english place than he had ever visited since the war began, and this made him feel a slight warmth in the chest, after a long time spent on cold. He let the other soldiers overran to enjoy a moment of that pale sun that warmed the earth.  
The city's main square was surrounded by a ring of identical houses, red brick facades and pitched roof sloping lot, the white lintels affected by months of conflict and neglect.  
The sky timidly showed a blue tint. So... that color so pure yet exists, somewhere.  
"Corporal Kirkland." The voice of Marshal painfully brought him down to earth. "You will have time to play around when the troops have been housed. Now go below to listen to the instructions of the french Marshal. "  
Arthur nodded in silence and began to follow the men in uniform coming down the narrow stairs at the bottom of the environment - one that might have been an inn, at one time.  
Follow the instructions of a Frenchman, he thought angrily. The British were to hold that operation, they were to decide to use those underground chalk quarries to attack the Germans by surprise. Those baguettes eater were not even able to put together a plan to take advantage from their territory. They had the good fortune to have hidden under the ground, the key to win the battle - and why not, maybe even send home those damn Krauts - and instead get busy we had built over a restaurant.  
The underground room where he arrived shortly after turned out to be less crowded than expected, probably had organized the accommodation of soldiers in different groups - certainly was an English idea.  
Someone was already talking in front of everyone. Arthur sighed. He was a Corporal: practically nothing. That's why he had to stay behind at all to stretch his neck to try to understand who he was talking. In any case he did not have too much effort to guess that the speech came from the mouth of a French: the accent and the annoying way that he let the words slip away into a barely acceptable English were unmistakable. Since they came to their rescue could at least make an effort to learn their language decently.  
And you will see, between a head and one of his comrades in arms, the Marshal. And he should have been a soldier? It looked more like a hairdresser. How he managed to keep hair like this in times of war? His were always dry and uncombed, and certainly was not one person that did not take care of! But in a moment like that, who had the time or the means to stay in their hair or shave that ridiculous beard?  
It took less than a second to allocate the Frenchman in one of its mental categories: incompetent.  
He had passed all of the desire to listen to the talk of the soldier, but if they ever came out of his Marshal to request a record of the instructions, reiterating his suddenly useless title of Corporal, then it would be trouble and would have lost even that spit prestige which he had earned. So he forced himself to listen to what he hoped was the end of that endless rant.  
"You're going to occupy the western galleries that are being finalized to be excavated in recent days. The accomodation of bedding is at your discretion, as long as you remain in the assigned area. Starting today, your compatriots will arrive, so is required to maintain order and discipline. That's all. Au revoir! "  
Arthur shook his rifle with both hands to avoid swearing. What kind of way was to disband the troops! Unprecedented. And then everyone knew that the British were to coordinate the digging of tunnels. It mattered little whether they were working New Zealanders. They were still part of British territory.  
The noise generated by the movement of men prevented him from getting to think of the worst insults. It was decided to completely avoid that kind of "Marshal".  
He started lining up to get housing. Those galleries were not at all comfortable and the idea of having to spend an indefinite time - weeks, months! - made him quite uncomfortable.  
"Corporal!" Arthur sighed heavily. His Marshall approached him as soon as he had turned and had the military salute.  
"Orders," he said, perhaps with a tone not sufficiently convinced.  
"I want an update now on all the platoons of which is scheduled to arrive in Arras. How many men there are and what day it is scheduled to arrive. Moreover, all this information collected have to be report directly to Marshal Bonnefoy. "  
Arthur looked away for a while to not turn to his superior a bad look. Bonnefoy... even the name remembered anything but a reliable person. He just could not drive from his mind the image of that suitor styling hair of the ladies.  
"Aye, sir," was forced to respond. Obviously it was not possible for the sole purpose of the day - stay as far away as possible from that individual ambiguous - could be brought simply to completion.  
Going back and forth to gather the information that was requested, Arthur got to know, at least in part, the area of entry of the tunnel. Extended everywhere, the New Zealanders had with the crossings of signals that contain the name of places in their country to be able to navigate. After all, this was an enormous task: the tunnel would have implants along the no man's land, until you get to face the Germans. Those Krauts ... would have paid heavily for their arrogance.  
Now that he had gathered all the information he needed, the most difficult task was awaiting him.  
"I have to report to the Marshal," he announced to a French soldier, being careful to avoid that name that he did not remember already. Perhaps the man could not utter a single word in English because he simply indicated over his left shoulder.  
He found the "hairdresser" with his feet up an old desk in what seemed to be a cave - there were even some thin stalactites on the ceiling that the light of a lantern lit up a dull yellow.  
"Dis moi, soldat" was the first thing that that person said him. Very encouraging.  
Arthur didn't try to perform a convinced military salute. "I'm English. And I'm a Corporal. "  
"Oui, oui. I know. You Britishmen are recognizable from miles away. "  
Knowing what he was referring to would only blew up the nerves, so Arthur clenched his teeth and went forward.  
"I have data on the arrival of more troops," he said placing the sheets on the desk without much grace.  
"I see" was what the Frenchman said, fixing them. Very acute. "Merci, Caporal. I know that your state is not a short trip, so if you want I can lead you up to your quarters. "  
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I seemed to have understood that the arrangement was at the discretion of every man."  
"Of course, but since you has hesitated to do your duty, I'll give you an accommodation for the night. Please, follow me. "  
Sincerely, Arthur could not wait to let down the backpack he brought with him for days, but the invitation of Marshal had left him in an inexplicable uneasiness.  
While following him, the Frenchman began to babble. "Do you want to know why the British are so recognizable?"  
No, he answered promptly if Arthur had not remembered at the last minute of a degree of distance that existed between the two. He was silent, but for the other this was not a problem.  
"Because you always have the look of someone who has just burned his tongue with the hot tea, but does everything to keep control."  
Arthur clenched his fists. He decided that for once he would do a favor to the Germans and would have saved them the trouble of killing him.  
"You French have always given the impression of a feather in your underwear that tickles your ass."  
Marshal turned with an expression that Arthur didn't focus - as he still decided to set before him - but who liked to imagine.  
The fool did not take long to break the silence that had fallen with a nasty laugh.  
"You English! I simply love your humor! "  
They stopped in front of a heavy door that opened onto a room not too large. The ceiling was vaulted and the bunk beds were lined up along the two longer walls.  
Arthur immediately noticed something strange.  
"Why are the beds so big?"  
The other looked at him like he had made the most idiotic questions. "Of course, because they are double. It's to save space. "  
Arthur snorted. Only the French could come up with an excuse like this to sleep all crowded into a cave. He went to what the Marshal had indicated as his bed.  
"It 's already occupied by someone," Arthur remarked, without much enthusiasm.  
"Oui, by me!"  
The backpack that Arthur was about to remove from the hands slipped and fell to the ground with a thud and the sound of pots and pans. Why on earth he had left his rifle to the armory! He would kill with one shot and no one would miss him!  
"What the ..!"  
"You should feel lucky, Caporal. Sleep in the homes of non-commissioned officers, despite your lowest level. " He laughed. How can he escape from the Germans so far?!  
Arthur's tongue was paralyzed because of the rage. The only positive factor was that at least had the opportunity to strangle him in his sleep.  
So lost in imagining the best way to hide a corpse, he winced when he found the Marshall's hand in front of his face.  
"Among bedfellows, we should introduce ourselves."  
Arthur looked at him wrongly. "We are soldiers, not friends who meet at the pub."  
"But to become we must first know our names. And since you seems the typical Englishman, I'll start. Francis Bonnefoy, enchanté. "  
"Arthur Kirkland." Damn! He had done indirectly. After all, he was a gentleman!  
"Great. The next step is calling us with our names. "  
"I think I'll stay where I am."  
"Arthur, would not you rather insult me regardless of the formalities?"  
Arthur took this as an invitation. "Try again to bother me and I will find a way to send you before the court martial."  
Francis laughed again. "Magnifique! I cannot wait to find out what you'll accuse me for. "

He had never imagined he could afford such a confidence with one of his superiors, but when he was forced to talk to that dude, insults never failed. He could not restrain. And surely the other one did nothing to avoid it: it seemed that he felt an insane fun in teasing him. Life in France should be very boring if that was the best for their pastime. Or, simply, that Bonnefoy was to have had a difficult childhood. Yes, he had certainly received a lot of shots in the head to fall in that state.  
Arthur blamed himself for the third time. He thought too much and this aways prevented him from sleeping well. Certainly he would not have allowed to linger under the covers because he never stopped smashing the brain in mental journeys without end. So prevailed again to silence the thoughts and sleep.  
Obviously the situation in which he was not helped him get to sleep. While turning away from Francis did not feel comfortable at all ... indeed. But he dared not move any more for some time. Finally he was silenced and had interrupted his ramblings about the beauty of France and the Frenchmen and the frigidity of the Englishmen, if he woke up he would not stand another minute of that nonsense.  
He closed his eyes. There was too cold to sleep. It was incredible how the moisture gathered under the ground. During the day it was almost suffocating, but at night, when the temperature went down, all the water that had settled on the skin and clothes turned cold and Arthur began to tremble. At least, the sheets were singles.  
He breathed into his hands to warm up a bit, but the result was ephemeral. Sighing, hid his head under the blanket. He understood it would be a long night.  
"Had you found peace, petit Arthur?"  
Those words suddenly whispered in his ear nearly caused him a heart attack.  
"Tais-toi!"  
"Oh! Then you know a bit of my language. "  
"I was forced to learn a few words to shut your big mouths. Now leave me alone. "  
He crouched to hold a little heat and pushed to the edge of the bed, but a hand came to rest on his side.  
"Are you cold? Mon dieu, you're all wet. "  
"What the fuck! What nonsense are you talking about? "  
"It 's fault of humidity, stupid frigid Englishman. You would disappoint me if you get excited for so little. "  
Arthur spun around, suddenly finding himself a few inches from Francis's nose. "Now shut your damn mouth and stop it with these speeches from a cheap brothel!"  
He turned back, determined not to speak to him again. A few minutes passed when Francis's arm appeared from the darkness to embrace his hips.  
"I thought I told you to stop! Do you want I cut your hand? "Arthur threatened on a rampage.  
"And do you want to freeze, stupid kid? Shut your acid mouth and sleep. "  
Since it was the first time he was silenced by Francis, Arthur did not reply. He remained only to haunt the brain with a thousand thoughts that overlapped confusingly.  
Francis said no more. Not bad. After a while, Arthur thought he had fallen asleep, so he closed his eyes too.  
That night he had a strange dream: he had beautiful long hair and Francis cut them without mercy. Damn hairdresser.

The first week was spent between the frenzy of preparations for combat, but Arthur and the whole platoon did not take long to realize that the surprise attack, that had long been prepared, would have to wait more. Every day more and more soldiers continued to pile up and coexistence in the bottom of the tunnels was starting to become problematic.  
Although they were chosen troops known for their reliability, the soldiers became increasingly impatient and quarrels broke out frequently. Inactivity made men irritable and undisciplined.  
Arthur could not participate in the councils of war, but Francis was sometimes invited to take part of them, and in the evening he told him what he was learned. Theirs was a relationship based of paradoxes. Every moment that Arthur spent with him brought him closer to the blind rage and the desire to kill him once and for all, but the expectation of news from the outside forced him to wait with a slight forward the talks held with him in the same bed .  
From the second week the exercises started. Arthur had already taken part in missions of a rather insignificant, but that was about to take was, in fact, his first battle. Fight for their country, defeat the enemy. These were the ideals that the Heads of State and the army firmly imprinted in the mind of every soldier, and Arthur we had firmly believed.  
In the third week he had the impression that those thoughts, so strongly rooted in him, didn't belong to him. He began to wonder the real reason why they live like a mole for almost a month and with the sole objective of a coming battle.  
When his duties took him around the caves, he inevitably stared at those endless stairs that would lead them all to hell in no man's land. One day he wpuld popped out of the tunnels and he would come face to face with a German. And at that moment he would have to pull the trigger.  
The very long staircase that was lost in the darkness symbolized his run into the unknown.  
He could not accept that his future remained shrouded in darkness.  
Francis caught his mood that night.  
"Are you more angry than usual," he noted, without investigating before making blatant statements.  
"The object of my anger is always the same," said Arthur, trying to be brief and not worthy of a look. After all those nights spent to turn their backs to Francis, he had the left side and shoulder all stiffed.  
"It's because in the morning there are never any decent croissants? I have already complained about this. "  
"Idiot. I speak of this war, this hole, the Germans and the Frenchmen. "  
"I agree with the first threes, but unfortunately none of them depended on me, so I do not see why you should be angry with the Frenchmen" Francis said in a conciliatory tone that Arthur had heard rarely get out of that mouth haughty.  
"I should not be here."  
"According to common sense, no one of us should."  
Arthur was attacked by a wave of anger: Francis was determined to not understand or he just liked to tease him. He turned finding him stuck to his nose.  
"Stop being so stupid. I'm pissed off because I do not understand the reason that pushed me to be here, right now, fighting a war that is not mine! Why should I stay here to risk my skin for you?! Is your silly country to have been attacked and if you are not able to defend yourself, it's your fault! "  
For once, Francis remained serious. "You reason like a brat."  
Arthur gritted his teeth and turned back. Another word and he would covered him with insults, waking everyone in the room. Francis did not blink.  
"If the Germans take France, they will arrive in England before you notice it. We are all in the same situation. "  
Denying him was useless: Arthur was not a fool, he knew that Francis was right, but he would never have acknowledge it.  
"You're not fighting for my country, but for yours, even if we now find ourselves in the same bed."  
Francis made him hate more and more, because he had more reason. In any case, if they were fighting for their country or any other, they had nothing to do.  
"I know," said Arthur quietly. "If my country is in danger I will fight for him, because there is nobody more English than me. But for this I have no intention of throwing my life in a trench, because only staying alive I can do something to drive away the Krauts. "  
Francis stroked his head but Arthur chased him away.  
"I'm glad you feel that way," said the Frenchman, now accustomed to irritability of Arthur, "because I want to hear your voice that spits acid insults to whatever breathes."  
The Englishman looked at him in disgust. "It will also to put a bullet in your face that I will survive, remember that."  
Arthur knew what to do. There were many ways to stay alive, avoiding the battlefield: desert or find a way to send other there people, and the last method attracted him a lot. Scale the power and reach the top, that was the best way to see the end of that war.  
He was looking at small stalactites on the ceiling when Francis invaded his field of vision and deposited a kiss on his lips. Arthur, taken by surprise, spent a while to understand what was happening, but when he realized he removed that dead weight with a loudly slap. He sat making the covers fly off.  
"What the fuck are you doing?"  
The two who were sleeping on the bed over them moved and Arthur bit his tongue. But he could not ignore it!  
Francis drove off the attack without hesitation. "Arthur, the operation will start tomorrow, we could not see anymore and I'm sick to satisfy your whims as a teenager, so now prepared because I can withstand all the girly slaps that you'll inflict me."  
He stretched out his arms but Arthur was too quick and pulled out the knife under his pillow. At that Francis could not remain indifferent, as the blade was pressing on his jugular. He looked at the knife with a hint of concern. "You're a bastard," he said grinning. He could also have fun in situations like that, that perverse.  
Pressing the blade on his skin, Arthur forced him to lay back.  
He was not like Francis. Hell, Arthur adored tits, and if they were bigger than he was happier, and the idea of having sex with Francis was simply repulsive. However, the thought had him at that moment, it is closer to the feeling of being faced with a breast size fifth.  
He looked at him long and hard before deciding to make the first move, but the thought of finally make him pay - in the only language that the Frenchman knew - gave him the impetus enough to bend over him, not without a certain vehemence. The knife still pressed on his throat, so when he attacked Arthur's mouth, the Francis's reaction was limited.  
His lips tried again those of English when they were separated, but Arthur was not going to satisfy him. He made him remain at his post while included, finally, the perverse pleasure that he felt tickling someone.  
He decided to experiment with new approaches, as his tongue stroked his cheek first, then the ear, extorting the Frenchman groans softly. When they tried to turn around to meet his lips, Arthur stopped him sinking his teeth into the flesh of the lobe and Francis wailed again.  
"Maudit perverti," he whispered angrily. "At least, admit that you like this."  
"I like to see you submissive, Marshal."  
With a sudden movement, the Frenchman grabbed the hand that gripped the knife and the head, so Arthur lost his grip and found in his mouth the tongue of Francis. He tried to withdraw, because that was not what he thought. He would not allow anything to that madman, he wanted to teach him to stay at his place, but now reflecting back totally turned the situation to his disadvantage.  
Now Francis held his both narrow wrists and Arthur had to rely completely on him. When Marshall tried to sneak back into his mouth, he bit his tongue and Francis drew back so quickly from banging against the iron headboard of the bed. He took advantage of the moment to roll out the body of Francis, but he was quick: he was already over him with a triumphant smile.  
"We've tried it, you little bastard. Now it's my turn. "  
This time it was Arthur's neck to be flooded with kisses and bites, and his weren't moans of pleasure, but of anger. He felt that Francis was exciting and it made him feel a moment of panic. Without thinking, he launched a knee between the legs of the other one, who stifled a curse and sat down on the mattress.  
The fight had left them both exhausted to panting.  
"But ... you wanted it" Francis said, laughing through the grimaces of pain.  
"You ... you're a pig," Arthur said breathlessly.  
"Can you imagine how far I would pushed?"  
Arthur shivered. "Don't make me think about."  
They were silent. The English had already closed his eyes when he felt fingers stroking his cheek and winced. Francis's lips were a few millimeters from him.  
"Tomorrow everything will change. Whatever will happen, stay alive. "  
When Arthur was sure that would no longer be attacked, fell back to sleep, but did not dare to drive off that arm that embraced his shoulders.  
Because everything would changed.  
The next day, Francis was transferred to Vauquais.

"There are mines! The min ... "  
Arthur's ears rang from the explosion booed in the bowel. Earth, wood, limbs rained down on him, but he found himself unhurt again. In those three days of battle the Germans had detonated mines in underground to stop the enemy advance, and until then Arthur had missed them all. The Germans retreated slowly, but the battle raged.  
"Be ready for the attack! Prepare the shotguns! "  
Arthur grabbed his weapon, crouched in the trench along with the other men. He squeezed the grip, focused movements that he would have to do: run, point the enemy, shoot, lie down, shoot, shoot, shoot.  
"Attack!"  
Fuck. That damn pack was pulling him down and prevented him from running well. The soldier at his side slipped back into the trench, shot dead by a bullet. Arthur climbed up and he was out. In the distance you could hear the guns. His objective was the enemy trenches that the Germans had abandoned backwards. In three days they had conquered ten meters of land. At that moment his life was reduced to only one purpose: that ditch.  
He began to run. Some enemies opposed the last stand from behind the sandbags of the trench a little further and he knew that others were hiding in the trees to his right, but they were being exterminated by the Allies.  
A head without the helmet popped from the shelter of the bags, Arthur put his knee on the ground, aimed and fired. Failure, but the sorrow was turned down. He had earned a moment to continue his advance.  
As far as he knew, a mine could be hide there or a German would be able to tick the last trench and kill him with a single shot. He went into the ditch with a jump and landed on a charred corpse burned by a flamethrower. He looked around for hidden enemies, but did not see. Breathed again leaning on his rifle and protect him from stray bullets, waiting for the other soldiers joined him.  
He remained on guard: he had no one who's covering their backs. If Francis had been there, certainly would never removed from his shoulders ... and his ass.  
Arthur closed his eyes, had only a few moments before having to resume its journey towards death.  
Screams came from the wood.  
"À l'aide!"  
Arthur felt a chill wind on down the spine. It was French ...  
He felt a bullet boo a few inches from his head. Fuck! He had forgotten the Kraut there before and he had stood up too over the edge of the trench.  
More screams from the trees and the unmistakable roar of the flamethrower. The German fired again.  
"Enough," cried Arthur furiously. He jumped out of the ditch and ran towards the barrier of sandbags. He planted his feet on the ground and knelt. A bullet passed him, another center him because he felt he a vague burning sensation in his side, but did not move. He took aim and fired. No other shots came from the barrier.  
Arthur gasped, shivering. He felt the blood his jacket at the waist.  
"À l'aide!" The desperate call came closer and Arthur did not wait and jumped over the trees. He followed the sound of the voice, but rather was attracted by the smell of burning. Flames appeared through the branches ... no, he was a man on fire. He ran to the Englishman invoking help with the familiar English accent, but Arthur knew that it could not do anything, indeed, if he stayed there he would be the prey of fire. He dodged to the side, but was careless. From behind a charred tree, a German pointed the weapon at him.  
"Fuck!"  
Arthur raised his rifle, but he was slower than the enemy.


	2. Deuxième Tranchée: La niege rouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Francis misses his Englishman and gets involved in a dangerous task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apology again for the bad translation, I hope it won't spoil it too much

Vauquais, December 1915

"Sergeant ... what should we do?" said the young soldier, one whose fear in his eyes was so obvious that it seems on the verge of losing his mind.  
"Be silent, and pray."  
Francis closed his eyes, knowing that others would do the same. Stuck down there, like rats, they had no other option but to sit holed up until the danger had passed. They were mashed against the walls of the tunnel with our legs pressed against them chest, the head bowed, awaiting the moment when all might have died.  
In an instant all the rock around them shook, there was a roar, a few fragments of stone broke away from the ceiling and rained down on them lifting the dust. The fragments whistled and the walls resounded. Francis felt the stone behind his back became warmer. Even from inside the tunnel, they could hear the cries of the hit people along the ground and echoing in their tiny hut.  
Then, all the noises stopped, the dust settled, leaving them half suffocated. Two soldiers were crying, others were left incredulous miraculously escaped the danger.  
Another underground mine avoided. Perhaps, it would be the last one.

The exploded gallery was the furthest west, they thought that there were still some men buried alive in nearly 50 feet below ground. They could hear the noises, but time would be spent before relief could reach them, if ever there was time to act: often the Command considered a waste of forces to search for survivors in the tunnels, it was easier to build new ones.  
At his troops were granted a few hours of rest, so once climbed to outside burrows, were brought to the cellar, a narrow dimly lit cave, where men could buy small luxuries such as wine and chocolate, but also postage stamps to send letters to their families. In a nutshell, was the closest place to reality that they had left long ago.  
Along the way they met officers and subjected hurrying to get to the rooms used as offices, infirmaries, kitchens ... Everything was claustrophobic, nothing comparable to the basement of Arras, whose largest caves could comfortably accommodate two hundred people.  
"Sergeant? Do you have any mails to send? "One of his men stood holding out his hand, waiting to receive the correspondence. Francis, sitting on a bench along the walls of the cellar, could barely see it against the front of the dim lantern hanging from the ceiling.  
"No, nothing this week," he said smiling, trying to hide her distress.  
"And what about that envelop?" insisted the soldier, pointing to the sheet that Francis had rested on the bench with feigned disinterest.  
"Letters to the love must be written carefully and I consider myself a mediocre poet," Francis joked with the sole intention to invite the guy to leave him alone.  
"Oh, I see Sergeant. But don't wait too long or you will put you in trouble, " warned the other, going away.  
Francis looked at him disappear into the darkness of the corridor, then turned angry. A mediocre poet! Nonsense. He could compose prodigious sonnets, if only the one who he wished to speak had not been a rustic country-tempered. Moreover, it had no address to send the letter which.  
He put the piece of paper crumpled in his pocket, waiting for the next time when he felt the need to let the memories run.  
What reason had him to do deliver it? He didn't even know if Arthur was alive. During the weeks spent with him, Francis knew he would be transferred from Arras, but if he would said it to the English, he only got a sad farewell - or at least that was what he had imagined, with the addition of a romantic tearful farewell. That night he wanted to conquer it. He had tried, not exactly the best way, considering the difficult subject with which he had to do, but he was sure he had left a deep mark that would torment that frigid English for many nights to come.  
He wanted to go back to Arras, and not just for more comfortable caves, but for sure with his eyes and his body that that mindless man had complied his intent... and he was still alive. If he was, who knows how he changed. The war transformed people, both mentally and physically. Maybe he lost a leg, was a common accident, or a flamethrower made him the favor of burning that exaggerated eyebrows. One year and three months was a very long time in a world where every day could be the last, the only consolation that Francis could afford was to imagine how it would spend more time with him and held him completely.

"Listen well: from now, be in absolute silence. Take the stethoscope and start doing your job. "  
His soldiers obeyed and were distributed along the end of the tunnel. Four long hours of wiretapping waited for them, hoping to catch fragments of conversation among the Germans who, at that time, digging tunnels in the opposite direction to them. They could be next to them, above, below or even a few meters in front. The only way to know their position and that of mines that would place, was holding down against the wall and listening.  
In recent nights, the miners had stretched the underground corridor as shown by Francis, but every day he and his troops had to go down there to make sure that the Germans had not done the same.  
It was an absurd situation. How long they would have to keep digging? Sooner or later it would come directly under the enemy trench, unless the Krauts had them blown up first.  
After an hour they managed to locate the direction from which came indistinct voices. Francis had had to learn german as all the soldiers who were with him and now he was taking notes on what he could steal through the earth and rock.  
He noted in his notebook a few words in german, in the meantime other men gave him papers with scraps of sentences, some of them was translating. The silence was absolute.  
Finally Francis reread three times the result. He jumped up and ran down the tunnel that is increasing, the soldiers who roamed the corridors prepend against the walls to let him pass.  
"I have to report to Major!" announced, sketching a salute to the man who guarded an iron door.  
When he was in, he appeared in front of the Major and read the statement.  
"We just learned in the outpost in the north-east gallery that the enemy is placing two Bergmanns in the vicinity of our trench."  
The Major looked up from the map that was consulting on the desk.  
"How much closed?"  
"The south-east entry, the one closest to our location. In this way there will be almost impossible to escape from the tunnel in that direction. "  
The officer took another look at the consumed map and sighed. "Sergeant Bonnefoy, take four men of your team and go to sabotage those machine guns. If they block the passage on that front, the plan of attack would no longer be implemented. Starts immediately. "  
Francis struggled to implement that order. He would come out of that hole, he would hear the wind on his skin, clean air ... but he would also be thrown into the Germans's mouth with only four men!  
He left the room without speaking. Just outside, he leaned against the wall and summoned all his clarity, the more he thought and more he became convinced that it was impossible.  
He looked up at the ceiling, imagining the sky. It's been so long since he came out, maybe his France was changed.

It was day, outside. Francis leaned slightly out of the trench and threw a sad glance at the landscape around them: Vauquais village was almost entirely destroyed, but a few poor houses of stones stood out with their skeletons against the sun veiled in mist. The nearest trees were burned, the ground was devastated by the explosion of mines and pits were opened as far as he could get his sight. Some patches of snow stained that unhappy land, groped as to conceal something that could no longer keep hidden.  
Francis drew his watch from his pocket and checked the time, since staying all that time under the earth he had lost all the conception of time: nearly four p.m. and not long time before the sun went down.  
He and his four men were equipped with rifles, revolvers and grenades, distributed among them. They had not been able to equip more than that: being only five it had to be a simple mission of sabotage and therefore they were able to move quickly.  
But it looked to Francis more like a suicide. The Germans weren't fools, they had certainly prepared sufficient protections to the machine guns.  
"Listen well, soldiers. We have two Bergmann pointed against us and we just have to sabotage them as quickly as possible. If we do a clean job, we all returned back alive, so be focused and obey orders. "  
The others nodded, but everyone felt the poisonous feeling of imminent death.  
They left the trench and crawled on the snow, and in a few moments Francis was soaked and shivering. The war was not something to be undertaken in winter, the story had accumulated many examples of its disastrous outcome, and thanks to the company of Napoleon, the French would have had to learn most of all the lesson. But that was not a war: now it was just a race to the massacre.  
They proceeded with exhausting slowly, up and down the muddy hills created by the mine exploded, leaving behind, little by little, the deserted village.  
Francis remembered Vauquais on the day when the Frenchmen arrived to evacuate, a year before it was a simple village in the woods, but it soon became the scene of one of the many unnecessary battles, for the same fate of all those poor towns that had the misfortune to be on the Hindenburg Line.  
They stood behind a mound, the closest to the enemy trenches. Of course, the problem was that the entrance to it was well hidden. In silence, Francis took the binoculars. The little snow fall will facilitate his task as the gap was barely visible as a faint dark stripe in the middle of candor, he could even make out what appeared to him like sandbags hidden by snow. His experience told him that that was the point where the machine guns were put.  
In silence, he indicated the goal to his soldiers. It was impossible to get closer, but they were nonetheless far enough to throw a grenade. If they missed the target, the fire alarm would be start would die.  
Francis thought it would be better to launch two weapons at once, but if it had exploded at the same point they too were involved, and as he was patriotic, he had no intention of sacrificing himself and four other people to blow those Bergmanns. So it remains only to that single launch grenade and hope. He decided that he would be doing: he was the Sergeant and he would have assumed this responsibility.  
He picked up the grenade, took a deep breath and armed it. He only had a few moments to calculate the distance and the force to needed to his arm: the bomb must detonated just touched the ground. With his free hand he made the sign of the cross, and threw it.  
The grenade drew a large arc across the white sky, Francis followed his path and he heard the muffled thud that produced the snow fell, about one meter from the pit.  
It was not exploded. Shit, he had miscalculated the ...  
For a few seconds he was deafened by the blast. The snow and the mud rose as the spray of a fountain and rained down again to the ground without producing any noise, except a long, tingle whistle that pierced the brain.  
Francis had repaired the head with his arms and let himself slide down the hill. When he began to hear again, he started hearing the first cries and curses of the Germans.  
The mission was accomplished, now they had to go back as soon as possible, before the enemy could have time to regroup. But something went wrong. He heard a liquid thud, then the snow next to him gets on red and one of his soldiers fell dead. From left, voices and angry barking of a dog came, a dozen Germans had identified them and they were running in their direction. Damn, no way out.  
"Run!" Francis ordered his men. Although he knew very well that it was a folly, he couldn't do anything but run away and pray to be able to escape on the snow. Before he start running, Francis grasped the gun and fired several shots. His hand trembled, but the enemies were in compact formation, so he could kill at least one and injuring another. Obviously it would not be enough.  
They fled, but the dog was right behind them and it attacked a Frenchman. Behind them, echoing the shots and orders of the enemy commander who urged them to chase.  
Francis ran, he not even felt his legs, but on that terrain was not easy to keep the balance. It seemed that his lungs exploded and he realized with horror not to hear anyone at his side: his comrades were dead. He looked behind him, the commander pointed his gun at him. A Mauser. Shit ... It was really screwed up.  
The moment he heard the gunshot was the same in which his left leg fell down and Francis finished with his face in the frozen mud. He struggled to breathe, the air was ice cold in the lungs and the wound hurt him so much that he didn't have the strength to scream. He tried to crawl away miserably, if he had seen at him in that time, he would have laughed. The Germans had plenty of time to have breath and get close, a couple of them laughed. Francis gave up, finally collapsed in the snow and swore. He had tears in his eyes with rage and pain. No, not die like that, in the middle of a valley outraged by the war, his country is occupied by those bastards!  
A foot pressed cruelly on his back, crushing him to the ground, the dog was growling close but it was immediately detained and removed. The Germans said something contemptuously that Francis understood.  
He wouldn't die there, not humiliated in that way, though not without having known if Arthur was still alive. He gripped the gun hidden from his body, spun around and shot in the face of the German. The ground around him turned red, he felt the blood splattered on his face.  
The others didn't appreciate at all the gesture of rebellion and threw themselves on him. They kicked his cheekbone, grabbed him by the hair and put him in the knee while his legs sent him excruciating pangs. They forced him to raise his head and he felt the chill of the metal of a gun on his forehead.  
"Sie sterben, französisch!"  
"Alt!"  
The one who Francis had indentified as the commander stepped forward him. He was tall, blond with ice blue eyes, nothing strange for a Kraut. He had the rank of Captain pinned on the uniform.  
"Vous allez loin de ma terre," cried Francis, he didn't care to talk to a captain or not, and he didn't care even that they did, he just wanted to insult them and send them all to death in the rat hole from which they came.  
"Get out of my land, damned barbarian bastards! You have destroyed my towns, killed my brothers and I'm sure you have killed Arthur too! Fuck you! "He spat blood and saliva on the boots of Captain, whom kicked him in the ribs. No one supported him and Francis fell to the ground. The wounds were taking him to lose lucidity, he heard only German administrative order. When he opened his eyes he realized that they were alone. Francis looked around suspiciously ... yep, he would kill him, just like an execution. Probably the German would be fun to torture him, or maybe the subjects had left because their officer had the unhealthy habit of raping his victims. They were pigs.  
The German bent over him and looked at him, tilting his head slightly, perfectly calm. He grabbed the gun with two fingers, now empty, that Francis had dropped and threw it away.  
"Go."  
He was sure not to have understood. The Kraut spoke french. Slowly, he propped on his elbows and tried to sit up.  
"Fast," said the German, with a deep voice with no anger. It was just an order.  
Francis looked at him long, he was sure that once he had turned to leave, he would shoot him from behind. "Why?"  
"For my people. Because you wouldn't believe that we are all the same." He stood up. "Move on or you'll be caught."  
Francis stood up with difficulty, but decided not to have it over again. Before leaving, he turned to German to another look. "Tell me your name."  
"I don't see why."  
"I want to know it to be able to save your life, if the opportunity arose," insisted Francis.  
"I do not want the pity of the Frenchmen" he said turning.  
"Please!"  
The German stood for a moment, Francis saw his breath was massed in front of him, his broad shoulders, firm and solid, short blond hair hidden under his hat.  
"Ludwig. Now leave. "  
Francis obeyed and went back limping to his trench. He didn't turn around, because he had the feeling he can trust him


	3. Dritte Graben: Geschenk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where two sides declare a break at Christmas, where two enemies meet again and two men look for some relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again... I apology for my English but I had not beta for this story

Vauquais, December 1915

Whether he was captain or not, Ludwig was a respected man on the battlefield, by his men and by his superiors. He was strict, careful, controlled, he demanded discipline but he had always reciprocated the obedience of the soldiers. That young man, with dark hair and mustache, was the one who used to venerate him most, but Ludwig didn't like such an idolatrante attitude: it was dangerous and, above all, synonymous of weakness.  
For these reasons he was surprised when the young soldier, which he still struggled to remember the name – this never happened, but he dislike that character from the first moment he had came in contact with his personality - had protested so vehemently after he have received the news.  
Obviously, Ludwig wouldn't have been influenced by those childish complaints: his orders were not challenged because they knew it was the right thing to do.  
"Captain, his decision offends the soldiers who are fighting for Germany," insisted the young man in a provocative way. "Fraternizing with enemy is unacceptable!"  
Ludwig was famous for being able to keep a cool calm even in the most difficult moments: this made him desist from sending that arrogant in isolation. Suddenly, he remembered his name.  
"Recruit Hitler, end these protests, my decisions are not questioned. If you don't intend to partecipate, you'll be allowed to stay here, so don't ruin a healthy leisure time to your friends. "  
Ludwig left without hesitation because he didn't care to attend the soldier's reply. The first time he had met him, at Ypres, he had seemed a young and diligent messenger: he followed orders immediately and without questioning and he loved Germany almost more than Ludwig, but with the passage of time he realized that his sincere devotion bordered on obsession. He was one of those who had failed in everything and who had managed to find their purpose only with military service.  
Insofar as Ludwig loved to fight and he found the mission of his life in it, there was a big difference between defending the homeland and hatred towards all those who were part there. One of the many things that Ludwig had learned was that the enemy shouldn't be despised in battle, but feared and admired. So he decided to save that French: he had sabotaged their machine guns with commendable action. Now the weapons had been destroyed and there was no reason to rage blindly against him.  
The man had to differentiate themselves from the beasts.

It was noon and it was time to go. Ludwig gathered his soldiers in orderly formation and together they began to march towards the village of Vauquais, desert, and almost completely destroyed for over a year. Although he almost immediately accepted the idea of the Frenchmen and he had tried to convey enthusiasm to his men for that initiative, Ludwig was investigating the area around them with care: there was always the small possibility that it was a trap.  
Some columns of smoke came from ruined houses and Ludwig heard the voices of French carried by the cold wind. His soldiers seemed heartened but some of them were still suspicious, like him, anyway. In any case, if they turned back now, they would only get relations with enemy worse.  
From a distance, a Frenchman came to meet them, he thanked the captain for having came and invited others to gather around the fires. Ludwig would not have disdained it but his senses were always alert, so he started to wander slowly among the soldiers camped, still struggling to enjoy confidence each other. Indeed it was an unusual situation, Ludwig hadn't memories of other episodes like that, maybe during the oldest wars ... In any case, if a celebration event of could improve the performance of his soldiers, then he favored to hold a truce with the French. Then, one of them that staggered him - probably already drunk.  
"Oh! Pardon, monsieur!" he apologized and straightening Ludwig noted that he was not drunk - maybe - but struggled to walk, leaning against improvised crutches. He recognized that voice as soon as he heard it. He pretended to nothing but the other stopped him putting a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of premature and un welcome confidence.  
"Hey. It is you, right? I know you better from than from the front." Ludwig turned around and actually found himself faced with the same French whose life he had saved a few days earlier. He glanced absently at the crutches.  
"You let me this gift," joked the other, a bit too cheerful for someone who comes face to face with an enemy, "then I'll pick back my apologizes."  
"As you prefer," said Ludwig disinclined to continue the conversation and trying to sneak away again.  
"Where are you going so fast?" insisted the Frenchman. "We have nothing to do and I would like to offer you a glass of wine."  
Ludwig didn't do anything to conceal his irritation. He decided to be clear, because the French didn't seem to understand. "Although I has agreed to this cultural exchange, I don't trust you completely, so is my duty to make sure that behind all this isn't hidden any ambush."  
"Oh," said the other with a hint of admiration. "Really professional, but I can assure you that no one is here for his will and all we hope is to return home as soon as possible. Having a respite, sometime, is something that we'll not give up. Rather, you could take an advantage. "  
Ludwig felt offended . "We have brought weapons, as agreed."  
"So everything is fine! Sit down with me and show me that you're here just to spend a peaceful Christmas. "  
The French really liked speaking.  
"Why do you speak German?" Ludwig asked to change the subject.  
Before answering, the other took it easy and sat down, calmly, on a log near an unattended fire.  
"Probably for the same reason why you speak French."  
It was a rather stupid statement. Ludwig spoke French because he was a captain, while the individual in front of him didn't seem a person of that rank.  
Not reaching any comment, the French hastened to explain. "I am a staff of espionage in the galleries. But you don't look like a person who dirts his clothes going underground. "  
"Yeah," Ludwig said, "I'm one of those who only get dirty hands."  
With the response he put him to rest for a while, but the peace didn't last long.  
"But I think I should introduce myself, since I already know your name." Instead of reaching out, handed him an empty glass. "My name is Francis and I would like to offer you some wine."  
Ludwig accepted the glass reluctantly. "Those two phrases don't go along together, exactly ..."  
"Oh yes, indeed. I love wine." Francis proved the truth of his words opening the bottle label that was leaning against the stump and pouring a generous amount for himself and Ludwig.  
They had not even finished the first glass that the French had already lost in senseless talk.  
"I love wine, wherever I am it always remin me of the summers in Provence. Many vineyards, lots of sunshine and lots of happy peasant girls singing and collecting the grapes. Ah, France, that land of dreams. It's like being in the Elysian Fields. I am sure that heaven is full of peasant with loosing skirts who spoon-fed you with juicy berries and show their white panties ... "  
Ludwig stopped listening after the eulogies to Provence, because he didn't care the least, and also because he realized that he's not accustomed to wine: despite the cold, his face was quite heated and the head had become heavy. He could stand up liters and liters of beer, but wine was able to take him by surprise.  
"...and the best baker in Paris..."  
"Why can't you be quiet for a minute?" Ludwig was tired of hearing that hum in the background. Francis looked at him, puzzled: perhaps he hoped to still be able to prattle on for a good half hour. He was struck by that protest, he thought long and hard before answering, looking at the stone houses that stood out dark on the white winter sky. Then he smiled with an expression that is very close to pity.  
"War changes people. I thought it was just an excuse used by the old veterans to complain, but I was wrong. "  
"Didn't you use to talk constantly, before?"  
Francis shook his head, shaking the glass. "Hell, yes! The art of dialectic is my great honor. It's just that… before running into all this horror I did not need to talk at random to hide what I really felt. "  
Ludwig was not there to provide counseling to a drunk Frenchman, so he would not investigate further. The French continued his confession.  
"What do you think about this?" Francis said, making a sweeping gesture in front of his, with glass in his hand.  
Ludwig didn't speak: he was not able to respond like that in such a short time and even if he could, he didn't want to share his views about that topic.  
"You know," Francis continued, "you're one of those who have invaded my beautiful country, reducing it to this shameful state. I would kill you all, here, in a while. "  
His eyes were planted in one of Ludwig. If he thought he was committing a great mistake to frighten the only reason why the German had not responded to that provocation was not believed him fully capable of making the act of which he had threatened.  
"Do you know why I won't do it?" Francis wanted to know. Obviously, Ludwig had many ideas like "weakness", but he preferred to hear the Frenchman's opinion.  
"Because I know that it wouldn't solve anything. The Germans are suffering like the French, none of us would be here now. We are just instruments of war that nobody understood the meaning of, but that everybody fights beleieving to be right. This is the reason you didn't kill me, didn't you? "  
Ludwig looked at him in turn to try to understand how much of himself he could share with the French.  
"Respect the enemy" he finally said, taking another sip of wine and then placing the glass in the snow. "In your case isn't only a wise precept, but something that you can put into practice. Strange to say, but I think we are very similarly. "  
The voices of the other soldiers were far behind them, before them the remains of Vauquais and awareness of a difficult future and, perhaps, too short.  
"Ludwig" Francis said after a while, calling him by name for the first tim – which the German didn't particularly liked - "Would you give me a Christmas present?"  
"Honestly, I think there's nothing to celebrate."  
"In fact, I think so." Ludwig wondered why Francis had red eyes. "I just want you to give me half an hour away from the memories."  
An idea began to rise in the Captain's head slightly blurred.  
"I would like you to help me to forget for a while a person who has made this past year a torture. He's far from me and almost certainly I won't see him again, so give me half an hour free of him."  
It was certainly not a common request and Ludwig didn't like at all the idea of being used to satisfy the Frenchman's perverse pleasures. However he had to deal also with his needs: he wasn't insensitive, and after years in the army he had made certain experiences. But there ... with a Frenchman! That was more than respect for the enemy.  
"I don't expect anything from you, you can make me what you want, I don't care." This statement by Francis puts in a slightly different light the unusual situation. Maybe it was just another occasion to demonstrate his ability to command.  
Tired of waiting for answers that didn't come, Francis got up and went limping to one of the abandoned houses. Ludwig decided it was time to stop thinking.  
The door of the hut barely ended and the top was burnt, the tents were gone, and the shutters on the windows had fallen. Upon entering, Ludwig took a chair and bruised the joint between the floor and the doorknob. Francis was shot from behind and was unbuttoning the jacket of his blue uniform.  
"You know that is not my habit to lure men in this way ... ah, I'm lying! If people know all my love affairs they will stop aduling Casanova. Oh," He spun around with half of the breast uncovered. "I didn't ask if you'd rather do it with or without clothes."  
"I don't care." Ludwig just wanted to finish quickly and groped to obtain only the best from that strange - and a little depressing - situation.  
Francis approached him and held out his hands to the buttons of his jacket, but Ludwig was not interested in that part, he didn't feel anything for that act and he didn't want to feel any, because he thought that behaviour wasn't suitable to a person with such a morally like his. It was an exception, a little fun, an inconscience dictated by the wine that no one would ever know, a small stain on his impeccable resume that would be canceled out with ease.  
He grabbed the French's wrist, he twisted it over his head and pushed him with his face to the wall.  
"Oh, we do so? I have hoped for a completely different position, but I'm one who can adapt. "  
"Don't forget who is the invader, between us."  
Francis finally decided to shut up and work together undoing his pants. Ludwig continued to take hold of his wrist against the iced wall, the Frenchman took the German's free hand and put his fingers to his mouth, then Ludwig could begin to move downwards along the curve of the back and touch him without too much regard . Francis's body was sensitive and it reacted quickly to stimuli. Ludwig was able to undo his belt with one hand and the French was able to tease him with his own, even being turned.  
Despite the tacit understanding that had up until now, the first time they weren't perfectly in sync: Francis was still a bit stiff and Ludwig was a bit too hasty. That damned wine had left him dazed, but with the course of time their movements began to be harmonized and Francis's hardly held groans chanted the seconds and minutes.  
Ludwig pulled his belt from his trousers and passed it around the neck of the French who let out a hoarse laugh.  
"Do you having fun?" Ludwig wanted to know.  
"... I'm just thinking that you and I are really in tune. It's like I'm being punished for my little sin of lust. "  
"Think what you want. I just like having people under my control. "  
Their breaths condensed in the cold air and delicate snowflakes crept between the boards of the dismemberd roof.  
They arched back again, the belt pressed on the skin of Francis whitened by the pale light that filtered down, blocking his cold breath. The sweat of Ludwig was iced in a hurry and he felt to be near to come.  
A final movement, a bit more violent and broken than the other, the noose tightened too much and a name was left hovering in the clear air.  
Ludwig came and Francis followed him.  
The Frenchman let out a deep sigh and a chuckle that wasn't elegant at all, but Ludwig hurried to get dressed before the sweat froze. Francis slid on the floor against the wall and Ludwig sat down next to him - but not too close - to catch his breath. He heard another one fumbling with his jacket still left on the floor, then Francis put a dented cigarette before his eyes. The German caught it a bit surprised by that optional and he made it fired.  
"You mettrais l'univers entier dans ta ruelle" said the Frenchman suddenly cheerful, releasing a puff of smoke.  
"Could I know when you were prepared for it?" Ludwig said, ignoring the summons.  
"Since we decided to spend Christmas together. Honestly, I would lured anyone. He took his time to aspire again. "But the fact that it was you made it comfortable."  
Ludwig didn't respond. Certainly, he didn't need reassurance, but didn't want to show to Francis that this little appreciation hadn't left him indifferent. Finally, the captain tied his coat, straightened his hat and spoke to Francis, who was still half lying on the floor, naked from the waist up.  
"Farewell, Frenchman. Of course none of what happened will have to get out of here."  
"Oui, mein Hauptmann" he said, making a military salute with a cigarette between his fingers. "But first let me return your gift." He rummaged through his stuff again and pulled out a dark gree tin box. He handed to him and Ludwig opened it suspiciously.  
It was a set dresser for men with comb, scissors, razor and shaving brush. The German looked at him inquiringly.  
"I admit, I didn't take it for you. Will you forgive me? "  
"It was for your man, right?"  
Francis looked down, putting his hands in his pockets. "Keeping it always with me, knowing I can't give it to him, it is much sadder than give it to someone else. Can I…? "He picked up the comb and passed it on the unkempt fringe of Ludwig. "This hairstyle is very good for you. Now you look like a real strong guy. "  
Ludwig gave a fleeting glance in the mirror still in the box.  
"Thanks."  
"Goodbye, Allemand. I really hope not to kill you by mistake. "  
"Goodbye, Französisch. Listen carefully the next time. "  
Ludwig left the house, and took leave of Francis hoping he could understand the meaning of that last sentence.

"Captain! What are you doing here? "  
"Shut up, soldier! Remember your task." Ludwig began to scrutinize, angrily, the darkness he was immersed in. The galleries now snaked through the entire no man's land, and staying down there gave him the feeling of being buried alive in a pit. Ludwig now understood what had been the life of Francis until that day...  
In general silence, Ludwig went to the bare earth excavated recently, at the point where his men had identified the location of enemy tunnels. He knew what he was going to do could be considered treason, but he also knew that it was the right thing for him and for those who were in that lost and battered place, to kill unnecessarily.  
He put his ear next to the wall, listened intently for a few minutes, then took a deep breath and wondered, for the last time, if he was sure about what he would do.  
"We are going to place a mine here, at 7 p.m.."  
He held his breath and waited for a response. In reality he felt ridiculous, but he wasn't doing it for fear or weakness. He just wanted to put an end to this madness.  
"Compris."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in set in 1915 and repeats real historical events, but I had to postpone the date to fit the narrative schedule: actually the famous Christmas break was set exactly one year before, in 1914


	4. Fourth Trench: The last salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Arthur accepts his responsibilities and his destiny, where someone is loved and someone is left alone, where someone meets and leaves again, when the end begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The official historical year is, again, 1915 and not 1916, I had to change it for narrative needs.

Dover / Ypres, April 1916 

London was burning and Zeppelins sailed the crimson sky as the shadows of huge bumblebees. Everything was in ruins, the bombs were falling inexorably over everything, unpredictable and unforgiving. His childhood, his life crumbled between the explosions, the memories flew away as ash.  
He felt the heat of the flames and the dust from the collapsed buildings that were choking him. It was useless to look around: the scenery was always the same and there wasn't any escape.  
He gazed helplessly that tragedy and the only thing he could think of was an old refrain that was about a bridge falling down ...

The walls of his room were gray, damp and stained with large holes in the plaster. Overthere, in Dover, the Zeppelins had already passed. The Germans, in an attempt to conquer the English Channel, had attacked the ports and then were driven inland.  
Arthur stood staring at the ceiling scraped, the blanket thrown to the side. He didn't know if that scenario of London had been a hellish nightmare or a memory: it was happened just two days before and it was still hard to realize.  
He sat down slowly on the bed, the gray light came inside through the window at his right hand and showed the desolation of Dover. His room was empty, except for a simple table, and the only window from which he was looking for an answer to his questions, was next to the iron headboard bed.  
He had his left arm wrapped around his neck and a bendage narrow in front, gifts from the last battlefield, Neuve Chapelle. The operation was a success, the city had been stolen from the Germans in half an hour, he could not understand how, in such a short time, thousands men could die: fivethousand deads per kilometer of conquered land.  
When he was told he would be brought back to London he had really hoped it was all over and that, somehow, he might try to start over. Then they reported that, as soon as he healed, he would be sent back to the front: he was a captain now, men had need of his guidance, since he had demonstrated so skillful in earlier battles. He had struggled so much to earn his independence, but he was increasingly becoming aware that he miscalculated.  
Someone knocked on the door and did 't bother to wait for an invitation before entering. Arthur tried to get up but was stopped by a hand gesture.  
"Good morning, Captain. How are you feeling today? "  
"Good morning, Colonel. I'm fine, thank you. "  
"It comforts us because we have many projects in store for you." The Colonel went next to the bed with a briefcase under his arm. "I'm here in an official capacity to promote you to the rank of Major."  
Arthur undertook to simulate surprise, really expecting it for some time. Another level up, and another meter down.  
"We are all affected by the ability with you hve organized these bailouts which during the London attack, despite being wounded, and then promoting seemed the right thing to do."  
Yeah, it was just the opportunity they have been waiting for.  
"I assume that you are bored," continued the Colonel removing the folder and throwing it on the bed. "I've brought you something to read."  
Arthur looked at the dossier, if he could choose he would not have ever read, but his manager was there and checked his moves, so he opened it.  
"Belgium ..." read aloud.  
"Ypres. It's your next destination. We think that the Germans are conducting experiments there. The allies battalions are down there, we want you to reach them and stop the Germans once and for all. "  
Arthur looked up from the sheets and gazed on the Colonel. He no longer tried to hide his hatred for that individual: they were both playing, but the defeat of Arthur was a fact. He made all sorts of unscrupulous action, dangerous, heroic, sly just to get there, at the top, to get away from the battlefield and move closer to those who had in their hands the fate of war, to make it stop or, at least, to be able to hide somewhere away from that destruction. But more he was coming to power, most he perceived the truth and understood more and more that the reason why millions of people had died was a mere economic issue. There weren't neither a beginning nor an end, the fate of everybody were in the hands of a few and he was a mere tool, like everyone else. None wanted an officer who came from the populace and the fact that he had gained power by his forces was only an element of danger, because he did not see the war from the same point of view of the bourgeois who were in command, and welcoming him among their ranks would only damage them.  
This was the simple reason that now Arthur was sent into the hell of Ypres, because this was a mission from which he mustn't come back.  
A promotion... good excuse. Major Kirkland didn't sound so good either. But Arthur wouldn't have pulled back, he shoulder too many responsibilities, he knew too much to want to abandon everything. Rather, he would have done with dignity the first step down the path to his ruin.

The place was desolate, like all other places where he had been during the last two years. England, France, Belgium, now there weren't many differences, the only thing he saw were the battlefields and they were always, sadly the same. Perhaps the only news was that, at Ypres, there were still some living tree. But it was raining. It was always raining.  
The trenches were divided over a large area, while the galleries were low and narrow, there was mostly tunnels. There was only one stroke more practices that lead to some rooms for basic needs: first aid, some dorm rooms and two offices, one for the General – who, in any case, didn't ever deign them of his presence - and one for him. The soldiers that had no place under the ground were content to stay in the trenches or, if they were lucky, in the nearby villages, when they weren't called to fight. At the moment they were all still there, because Arthur didn't waste any time in arranging the attack the Command wanted and later he would be consulting with the Sergeants.  
Meanwhile, scanning the deserted area that stretched before him, somewhere, about a mile away, there war the German trench, motionless.  
Arthur was standing near the trench, in a slightly raised area, a perfect target for a sniper, but he knew there wasn't any risk at the time. For many weeks it was all quiet, nothing moved, it was as if the Germans were waiting for something, and Arthur was not hard to figure out what.  
His arm is still hanging on the neck band, it was too early to free it from the bandage. During the attack in London it had been under a collapsed wall, only a miracle made him not broken anything but had threatened to have it amputated because the muscles and tendons were damaged. He was lucky, he had realized it for two years. Despite all the nonsense and reckless acts that he had made, he was always saved and had always fought to stay alive. But a new question arose in his mind: what he had to stay alive for, in a world like that? Now he knew all the sinister and selfish intrigues that were the origin of the war and he also had the certainty that that war would never end. So he might go away from that place as well.

He raised his rifle and he was taking aim carefully, but it was useless, it was ridiculously late and the Germanman had already targeted him. In addition, he was dying for helping a Frenchman. Damn.  
Then something indefinite and hazy. From the wounded side - that before he had almost forgotten – a sharp pain went up and reached his brain and for a moment he saw all confused. He could hear the shot and the ground struck him on the head. He thought to have been shot and the world turned dark. But then he heard men shouting, more shots, a bit light appeared again and Arthur arose, gasping in the mud. The German that had shot him fell dead and other British soldiers in khaki uniforms came to see if Arthur was still alive, they called a stretcher and took him away. Still struggling to understand what had happened, he had assumed that the wound in the side made him lose consciousness for a few seconds and he did dodge the bullet by a whisker.  
But to return to his base, him and stretcher-bearers had to cross the battlefield with bullets wandering crazy, mines everywhere and the fire that had burned down the Frenchman. Why he would have to return to the shelter? They would not be able to make one more step.  
His arm hurted and forced him to open his eyes. Adapting to the darkness of the room was difficult, but soon he regained control and he remembered where he was. It was Ypres, not Arras. That chapter of his life was closed.  
During sleep, the band was separated from the neck and his arm was under his body. He took a long time before he could move it. His breathing was still labored, remained motionless, with the blankets away from the body. With his healed hand he felt the hard mattress at his side, but he immediately encountered the edge. He withdrew his hand, feeling an inexplicable sadness.  
That was not a French bed.

"Their machine-guns are stationed here, here and here. At this point there are two cannons, but they have run out of ammunition and supplies haven't arrived yet. This is the favorite area for snipers, so if we attack this way... "  
Arthur was holding a pencil between the two indexes and traced absently small waves in the air, watching carefully the map that the Sergeant was tapping, proudly doth all the information he had gathered on the Germans before the arrival of reinforcements.  
"If we tried to work around here ..."  
"What is that track?" said Arthur suddenly.  
The Sergeant stopped, confused. "What track?"  
"That sign behind our trench."  
The man looked down, searching. "Oh! That is the trench that we used at the beginning of the attack, when the Germans were using the guns, but when they have finished ammunition, and because we have found that it was no longer scheduled to arrive, we moved a mile further on. "  
Arthur leaned forward and looked thoughtful. "I want a thousand men, seven hundred will have a frontal attack, three hundred shall be there if I need them. All others will move in the old trenches. "  
The sergeant turned and waved to him as if he were talking to an idiot. "But Major, in an emergency we would be too far away to come to your aid. A thousand men are too few! "  
"Not if they are well used."  
"But it is a risky mission, we don't know what the Germans are planning!"  
"That's why I'm going to bring a few men with me! It's better if a thounsand will die, that five thousand." Arthur was losing patience, he was tired of being treated like a rookie, he knew what he was doing. The other one calmed down.  
"Major, are you sure you don't want to direct the attack from here? You have the command, if you fall ... "  
"It will not happen. And if it was, it won't make the difference here." He kept repeating that phrase to his men to reassure them. He didn't know if he would fall or not, the next day, but it certainly was what the command expects, then it could only be a matter of time.  
"Go now, send here the French officers so they can agree with the plan." Arthur dismissed the Sergeant with a wave of his hand, he saluted and went out quickly. Outside there was a brief exchange, then the door opened again and the Frenchmen entered. The first, Lieutenant, saluted and was directed to the desk, the second ...  
Arthur held his breath, felt his heart skipped a beat and froze because that was the last person he thought to be in front. He was Francis, and he had his same expression.  
Arthur had been caught so off guard that he didn't know how to react, but Francis was still and silent, pale and wide-eyed as if he's watching a ghost, so Englishman tried to ignore him, asking the Lieutenant to speak. He didn't need to repeat, he seemed to have memorized a speech about the merits of his troops and the support that they would offered and Arthur answered occasionally in monosyllables, trying to look into his eyes. But sometimes his glance fell on Francis that he was still there, motionless, putting him completely at ease. He seemed to make an enormous effort to restrain himself, all hands were trembling.  
Arthur showed his plan in broad terms, said that he would take only four hundred Frenchmen on the next day. The other proved to accept the conditions, probably he hadn't any desire to organize an attack and Arthur had made it so that it appeared a sort of reconnaissance. The lieutenant said goodbye and waved a bit impatient to Francis, but Arthur took his opportunity, without thinking.  
"Leave, Lieutenant, but I would like the sergeant to stop to list the weapons at your disposal."  
"As you wish" said the other without showing too much interest. He went out and closed the door behind him.  
Arthur went around the desk slowly, looking for something to say and an expression to assume.  
"Hey... where are you..." It was impossible to finish the question because Francis had got his head in his hands and sealed his lips with his own. Arthur didn't like similar effusions, and had the urge to dismiss it, but he didn't, because it had all happened so unexpectedly - the meeting, his tongue in his mouth – and because he had been struck by the suffering that Francis had shown while he was standing there, looking at him ... and also because it was as if something, inside him, was melting and was draining him forces.  
For all those reasons - and many others that he failed to classify – he didn't react to the hands of Francis who rummaged, touching each body part, like to make sure there nothing was broken. But when he felt his arm, now free, Arthur withdrew seized by a pang of pain.  
Francis was frightened, but soon he came back and this time he looked straight at him. Arthur was lost for a moment in the blue, a color so bright that he hadn't seen for a long time. The French pressed him so hard to squeeze the air out of his lungs.  
"I swear, I was sure I won't see you again. Damn, what have you done to torture me so? I hoped that I was shot in the head to be able to stop thinking about you."  
"Enough, Francis." Arthur tried to be delicate but he was not sure to go further, someone could entered, and there was a limit to everything, what he heard put him in difficulty. He didn't like to admit it, he hoped to have developed greater self-control, but he was glad to see Francis, it was like going back, when the war's end always seemed near.  
Despite all, he felt a certain danger in that relief, something that could undermine his determination and remove him from his duties.  
"What happened to you?" Francis said, ignoring his protests. He examined with care every corner of her face. Arthur felt uncomfortable.  
"Nothing different from what you've been through, unless you have made to tidy up paperwork until now."  
Francis seemed distressed. "Your eyes are dead, Arthur."  
It was certainly not something that he heared every day and Englishman was very impressed by that remark. In reality there was nothing wrong with what Francis had said: Arthur was well aware of what he had become.  
"Yeah," he finally said, hiding a hint of bitterness, "some things cannot be avoided."  
Indeed, even the French seemed tired. Brought upon him the signs of the war, he had lost weight, he didn't walk erect and safer, he didn't perform his provocative smile, but his eyes shone like those who have not yet given up hope.  
Suddenly, the French seemed to remember Arthur's reluctance and moved away slightly, changing the subject. "I'm glad you kept your promise to stay alive. I would love to know how did you become a Major in so little time. "  
Arthur wasn't proud of what he had done, if two years before he was willing to anything to get to the top, now he regretted the days when he would have died quietly on a muddy battlefield, unaware of the plots that were hidden above him, convinced he had fought for a noble reason.  
He put a hand to his head and lifted his hair, revealing the scar from the bullet that hurted him at Arras, who had saved up for a breath.  
"Through this and many other unnecessary acts of heroism."  
Francis touched the wound itself. "What an idiot."  
Yes, he was, but said nothing. "If I hadn't done all that I would not be here."  
"Yeah, probably you would be in England, on leave."  
He felt a tinge of irritation. Reminding him of his errors din't help him to remain calm. He decided to take him off guard. "And why aren't you at home on leave?"  
Francis dipped his fingers deeper in Arthur's hair. "I was looking for."  
"You said you can be sure I was dead."  
"It's true." He laughed without enthusiasm. "Do you realize what you've done?"  
Arthur wanted to argue without much grace, he didn't like the way Francis encumbered by the additional responsibilities. He was certain he could not hold any more, but he was tired of the bickering, the races who could prevail, the struggle against temptation. There remained only a goal to accomplish and probably would not have extended beyond the next day.  
Francis looked at him in a way that disturbed him, hugged him again, more gently this time and started kissing his neck. "Now I'm here and I will not let you do other stupid things."  
Arthur struggled. "Shut up, now."  
"You are not changed, despite everything."  
Yes, he was changed! He made choices, and embarked on a path that could not escape without serious consequences. Francis made him angry, he knew nothing of what had happened or that he had decided. He didn't realize the responsibilities that he had!  
He was changed, or rather, was destroyed. He erased all that was and also what he believed. He had no other expectations than to go to die the next day, giving up just that for which, two years before, he wanted to live and fight.  
He felt ridiculous in front of Francis. He faced every kind of difficulty, danger and suffering, yet he seemed to be ridiculously lower, and this made him angry.  
It was as if Arthur no longer exists, even his pride was sunk in the ground.  
Would not give up his duties and would not abandon his mission, but if he could he would wanted to disappear forever, that would solve every problem.  
"I desire you like before, but I know you're a modest bastard so I won't insist, I will simply continue to comfort you until you could no longer resist."  
Arthur pushed him away. Francis knew nothing, could not claim to believe that he had remained the same as before. He was furious and his mind went to the knife which he kept on his desk: He would gladly planted in one eye. What arrogance. But what made him feel even worse was the feeling of having always wrong when he was with the French. What a degrading situation, he wanted to experience relief now, he wanted to disappear. By now it was only a scrap, he felt that even his soul had been corrupted and had no more hope. He could not feel anything but sorrow, guilt and anger, that was why the day after he would cross the no man's land without fear, because he had reached the point of contempt.  
He stared into Francis's eyes, like a challenge, but there was nothing noble in what he was doing, only the desire to be canceled, in body and soul.  
He felt lousy, but with determination and anger he began to unbutton his jacket and threw it on the floor, then did the same with the shirt, pants and very quickly he was naked.  
Francis had looked at that unexpected show open-mouthed, but Arthur was not going to know his reaction, it was just a selfish act.  
He went to the wall and leaned on his elbows, trying not to think about anything.  
"What are you doing?" Francis asked incredulously.  
"Shut up, I know you want it and then hurry up."  
He heard his footsteps approaching slowly, but not his hands on the skin, as he thought.  
"I don't want that."  
What a bore, not going well at all. Couldn't him be satisfied?  
"Francis, I am changed, come to terms, so get moving before I change my mind!"  
It was humiliating, but it was everything he could do at that moment, trying to satisfy his self-destruction desire, or at least was the only thing that did't include the use of knives.  
He was just a disgusting concentration of pain and failure.  
Francis could have insisted on the belief that this was the wrong way to do it, but probably he thought he couldn't miss such an occasion. His hands were cold when he touched his hips and went down to the spine, up to the shoulders.  
"I'm here to rescue you from the darkness where you fell, Arthur."  
Arthur closed his eyes. It was impossible to save him, he didn't want to, but tried to believe for a moment.  
"You have saved me already," Francis continued, "you were my little star in the worst moments that allowed me to come back to you alive."  
Those words helped him to face the shame he already felt. "Stop ranting."  
"You stop ranting, and try to understand what I can give you."  
What he wanted was just sinking and finally stop thinking, but unfortunately the ability to strive the brain in every situation was his prerogative, so before he feel Francis's fingers touch his belly, he was hit by an avalanche of thoughts that did stiffen like a dry twig.  
The French began to kiss him, Arthur could not stand it because at that time, that seemed to last for eternity, he had many opportunities to think that he was lying to himself. He liked to feel the touch intrusive and expert of Francis, the warmth that spread from his skin, his hair tickled his shoulders, his clothes which decreased gradually. But it was all too complicated and degrading, it was much easier to always want to be deleted rather than accept those shivers of pleasure.  
"Do you really want it?" Francis whispered in his ear.  
Damn it, why did he complicated his life like that?! He was sad and confused, certainly didn't have the right to make a rational decision and everything that was happening was only dictated by his temporary disorientation. Yes, he wanted, but he would surely regret, he knew, he was committing an act of thoughtless and childish, just like all those pathetic attempts at heroism that had cost him the death sentence. Recently, he was no longer able to make wise choices, it was as if instinct had taken over, and finally pushed him to commit a crap after another, unable longer to stop.  
In the time it took to Arthur groped to decipher what he felt, Francis decided to interpret the answer in his own way. He slid down his back until his knees - he was now naked too, Arthur perceived it perfectly - put is hands on his hips and began to stroke him, first with his lips and then with his tongue.  
Arthur was fighting the urge to turn around and spread him with a knee. What ways were they?! He was not ashamed? The way he was taking advantage of him, even were the most common prostitute in a brothel, troubled him deeply, but to be honest was what Arthur had wanted at the beginning: to be taken, annulled, cut down completely. Between the desire and the fait, however, there was an abyss. The Englishman hadn't a great culture in this area, all reports that had until then had been with girls much less vulgar and enterprising than Francis, but he sensed exactly what was there to do in that situation. The French continued to work back there, and Arthur was happy to be turned so he could hide the blush that was invading his cheeks. When Francis got out of his hands on his thighs and then up, Arthur understood that he had fallen too low to be able to raise.  
He didn't like Francis stimulating him that way, he wanted to manage his pleasure by himself, that was how he always did with women. But at that moment was completely at the mercy of those alienating movements which did't surrender.  
He couldn't do it, could not humiliate himself like that. Okay being overwhelmed, but he wanted to maintain a minimum of dignity at least, he didn't intend to remain in Francis's mercy as a shameless whore and even less ...  
It was a moment, all thoughts vanished. All of his expectations had not prepared him for such a feeling, an inextricable tangle of pain, pleasure, desire, discomfort, heat, friction, thrill ... his brain stopped working.  
Francis's head was now next to his and he distinctly heard his gasp on the sweating skin. Arthur dug his nails into the rock, bit his lip to stop those groans that went up along the throat and pretended to leave, uncontrolled and vulgar.  
They had to bend under Francis's streght, who also leaned on the wall, keeping Arthur's hands in his, as to prevent escape of that union, but also to support him. Because he insisted on his suffered silence, Francis, because he needed or just out of spite, bit his shoulder, and so Arthur was forced to ceive, with shame, but also liberation.  
"I've been waiting forever... I dreamed of this moment," Francis said, short of breath. "You're all I want, you're my salvation from this hell."  
Arthur didn't answer, he was seized with a shudder.  
"Why do you restrain? It will make it easier and more beautiful if you relax. Don't wonder whether it's right or wrong, just receive my love in you. "  
What kind of sentimental romance, just a french hairstylist could paraphrase such a pronouncement. It was terrible to be in another's mercy that way, but Arthur knew that if he had listened to Francis, it would be easier.  
Francis movements were more intense and precise. He knew where to touch to make him lose the right and Arthur was approaching the point of no return.  
"Look at me, Arthur. You're making love with me, not with the wall... there, it's not so bad. "  
He was too vulnerable, he didn't want to show his flushed face to Francis and look now too close to ecstasy, but his willpower was quickly abandoned. Francis touched his jaw, prompting him to bend the neck backwards.  
"F-Francis ..." He wanted to tell him to pack it, but the words couldn't come up, they seemed stopped from one node next to the heart.  
"Arthur, you're so beautiful. Say my name again. "  
But what did he require! Full service? He wouldn't be the compliant little wife who would satisfy his whims.  
"Fran… cis ..."  
What the hell was he doing?! Why was that the only word he can spell?  
"Mon Dieu, you are perfect."  
"Francis ..."  
Yeah, his brain was fucked. It was like his rational side was relegated to a corner, completely disconnected from the rest of the body and was watching, with some disgust, the absurd situation where he had collapsed on its own.  
Francis touched him with transport, but even less coordination, faster, harder and Arthur finally reached the pinnacle of pleasure. From the strange feeling he had a few moments later he realized that Francis had reached too, and both stopped, panting.  
Now that Arthur's mind was regaining lucidity, he still couldn't believe he did what had just happened, he felt somewhat between surprised and shocked. His forces were dried and suddenly didn't feel his legs. Francis received him in his arms and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall.  
Arthur felt him burning and the Frenchman slowly passed a hand across his forehead and hair to wipe sweat away, while his other arm encircled him tight.  
He carefully caressed the scars that he identified on Arthur's body, who appreciated that moment of affectionate silence more than sex.  
"You were really rude," said Francis, moving from the wound in the side of the long scar on his left arm, "you treated this body badly, even if you knowed that you'd have to give it to me soon."  
"I've never knew, you self-centered."  
If he knew it, everything would be different? If at Arras he had made a different choice and had received the Francis's care in a different way, now he would have to die in Ypres, with tortured body and broken soul?  
"In one way or another I always get what I want. But next time I'd like to seduce you, rather than force you following your unhealthy self-destructive desire. "  
Arthur sighed irritably: he couldn't be satisfied. "Next time do more, then, and don't try to seduce me with your voyeur methods."  
Francis kissed his arm and hand, like a dog licks a wound. ... An affectionate gesture.  
"I want you to stay back in the old trench tomorrow."  
Francis stopped and looked into his eyes as if to make sure he was not joking. "Are you kidding me, right?"  
"Why should I? They are the orders of your superior. "  
He released his arm. "So you're going to jump again in absurd suicide mission?"  
"Don't raise your voice, you fool!"  
"You're the idiot! After all that's happened I believed you won't have the desire to die! "  
Arthur pulled away from him. "This is not about wanting to die, but of duties! I received the order to carry out this mission and I'll pull back. "  
"You're a damn fool! Not only demand that I let go you, but you also want me to stay away if you need help! You're a selfish bastard! "  
The echo of the slap lingered for a few interminable seconds in bare the cave. Francis, who had been taken completely by surprise, put his hand to his flushed cheek.  
Now Arthur was furious.  
"You are the selfish! Can't you understand? There aren't just me and you, here! It's a war and we are involved in both, I much more than you, alas! "  
"Yet you care about this stupid war?! Didn't you understand that neither you nor I can do anything to stop it!? Then just leave the command and come away with me! What stops you, again? "  
Arthur bit his tongue before shouting an insult that would attract in the office all the soldiers in the neighborhood. He took a moment to regain control, or to be able to lower the volume of the voice at least.  
"Let me understand: do you mean desert?"  
Francis opened his arms in exasperation. "What's holding you back yet? Now we are together and we can go where we want! We'll return to England, Italy or escape to America! "  
Arthur wanted to scream and him because of his stupidity, but he realized that would be useless, and now he was tired of arguing. If he could he would leave, slamming the door, but unfortunately he was still naked and clothing would take too long, so that surely would have passed the anger.  
He knelt in front of Francis. For some reason he felt exhausted, but he wanted to be able to reason with him.  
"You have to catch that I'm a Major now. I have a task to be performed, and soldiers to control. If I desert ... my men would be charged with treason and probably they would all be shot! If... if I... "  
Damn, he couldn't stand anymore. Francis couldn't have known what he wanted leaving everything behind, but he couldn't! His pride, his duties prevented him... He could not stand to look back on his choices, he went on, he felt no remorse at all. He could not afford it.  
And now he was trying to suppress that instinct to escape that Francis was inculcation in him, he was so torn that if it was alone probably tears would dropped from his eyes, but not in front of him.  
"Try... try to under stand what I have to do." He put his fists on his chest, he didn't know what to say but he didn't want the other replicates. He must understand!  
After a while, Francis sighed and took his head in his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes.  
"My poor Arthur. You have been doomed by yourself. "


End file.
